Only half of me is left
by Walleh
Summary: A year after Reichenbach: John needs to survive, but can he do it alone? Or will another broken soul benefit from the grief they share?  Jonh/Sherlock are soulmates in this one, but not romantically. John/OC  not a romantic story though! Read and see!
1. Chapter 1

**How can John possibly even think of getting married? Well, here is the beginning of one scenario I could imagine… I literally just wrote down my thoughts in an hour, and I may or may not continue it… I've got ideas, but I don't really write at all… Well, hope someone will read it, would love to discuss different ideas on how John gets on after The Fall! **

The world was grey. Every morning, John would sit straight up in bed, his face damp and he would think he had just had a nightmare – only to realize it was a memory, that memory, and the colour would wash right out of the world.

He walked without feeling the street beneath him, the sounds of the events around was as if under water. He looked past people who spoke to him, always looking slightly into the distance, as there was only one person he wanted to look in the eye, only one voice he wanted to hear. But that was over now. He was gone. Dead.

It had been a year now. A year, and nothing had changed. He was not back. Anything else than that didn't matter. All John could sense was the endless question in his mind "Is Sherlock here?" and every day he was crushed by the answer sounding "no".

Things around John changed. Even though the changes involved him, it never really had anything to do with him. He stopped going to his therapist. Even as sympathetic and educated a therapist she was, he saw it: He saw that she was growing impatient with him. Saw that she didn't understand. She offered clever explanations for his long lasting grief: Sherlock had taken away his PTSD, and now that he was gone, under such traumatic circumstances (she couldn't even begin to imagine, John thought), the PTSD was back in full force. She didn't understand. This was different. This was worse. This was not a disorder. This was dying, slowly, painfully, discreetly.  
>He had also gotten a job. Part of a small doctor's practice of three doctors. He couldn't even remember the others' first names. He only did the mundane tasks. He couldn't think anymore. Only did routines. Volunteered to do the practice's paperwork. Made up for his declining doctors' skills, earning his small pay check. Most importantly, it allowed him to do something, keep routine and avoid other people.<br>He had quickly learned that you couldn't go around mirroring the pure despair and hollowness within you. You couldn't scream out the pangs of pain that went through you with every breath, every heartbeat. It frightened people. It made things difficult. So he wrapped himself in a layer of nothingness, and put together a routine. It was easy. People are simple. Feeling nothing, he could see it all from above. How people expect you to interact, what is the bare minimum of human contact you must have, for no one to notice that you no longer exist.

So he went on with his routines, hiding behind his façade, knowing nothing would ever happen again.  
>Until something did.<br>It appeared to be another day, as any other day had been since.  
>John was sitting at the front desk. It was a slow day, and to avoid thinking, sinking, he was checking old paperwork. A woman came into the practice. She wasn't ill, but lost, apparently. "Sorry to inconvenience you, but could you tell me the way to…" She looked at a note in her hand "…31A Tailor Street?"<br>"Yes" John answered automatically. He knew that address. It was the address of his therapist. "It is just to the left out on this road, then right at the small street, and then right and left shortly after", he answered in his distant voice. The woman smiled. At first John didn't recognize the grimace, as it was so unfamiliar to him, and it seemed it was not a common face for her either. "Doesn't sound like I will find it. Perhaps you are not too busy… ?" It took John a few seconds to process. He was so unaccustomed with unexpected interactions. Then he realized, she was asking for his help. And he used to be a gentleman. Was there still some left of that man? "I'll take you there" he said and got up.  
>They walked in silence. John didn't even notice that she studied him, inquiringly, formed an opinion of him.<br>"This is the place" he said when they stood in the door which he had avoided for the past many months. "Thank you." She said, and stuck her hand out. "I'm Mary". "John", he answered and took her hand. She held on to it, and looked him directly in the eyes. "You are broken too, aren't you?" He looked at her, and saw her for the first time. She was pretty, strawberry blonde hair, though a few greys were working their way from her left temple. She wore a warm coat, though it wasn't particularly cold. She was about John's height, with petite features. But what he noticed the most, was that she was a mirror of himself. Dark circles under her eyes revealed she wasn't sleeping through the nights. Though laughter lines by her eyes and mouth witnessed of happier times, a full life, the grey colour of her cheeks showed her life had no joy, and the blank look in her eyes told him that she was alone: She had been left. "I am widow", she said, as if answering his unasked question. "I am…" he hesitated. How could he explain? "I had a friend…" he started. "He was… part of me. He died. He left me. And now…" he was unable to finish, words he had avoided, put away and locked in, where suddenly spilling over to a complete stranger. She looked at him: "Now you are only half of who you were". Their eyes locked. He couldn't remember when he had last had eye contact with anyone, but looking into her eyes, he heard what he needed: She understood.  
>He also saw something else. She was determined. She was a survivor. A broken survivor, but a survivor none the less. She reminded him of the one person he could think about.<br>"So we are two halves. Maybe we can split a dinner sometime then?"


	2. Chapter 2

**So, this is part two of my go at how we might see John moving on to a relationship after Sherlocks death.  
>I have decided that it is indeed soul-mate SherlockJohn, but not romantically.  
>Hope you like it! There will also be a part three, which will be the last, because I have more Sherlock-ideas that I want to write! :D Enjoy!<br>I do not normally write fanfic's, but I just can't think of anything but Sherlock, so I might as well write it down, so I hope you will read and review (: **

Going out with Mary was so easy, for both of them. No need to pretend the person on the other side of the table was the person was who was on your mind, who you wanted to be sitting there. It might seem cold, or sad, but in reality it allowed both of them to breathe, just a little bit. It was almost comfortable, to be able to just trail off midsentence, stare out into the distance for a while, and be able to go right back, without having to explain to the other person what happened. Because she understood. She was there, experiencing it all.

For the first time since it had happened, John was able to talk about Sherlock without breaking down. Normally he had to shut out the memory to the best of his ability to even stand upright during the day, but with Mary, he told the tales of his life, his life with Sherlock.  
>Mary too, told long stories of George, her late husband. She told of their meet-cute, where he had spilled his coffee on her on a Monday morning before her job interview, and felt so bad, he had promptly offered to buy her a new shirt from the store next door, and had been so mesmerized by her, that he didn't notice the price tag, and had to live off of oatmeal for the rest of the month, the poor student he was. How his clumsy, boyish charm and gentleman gestures had swept her off her feet, though she had been so focused on being an independent feminist, who didn't need some bloke opening the door for her. How he would always hug her with his arms inside her jacket to be closer to her, how they always cooked spaghetti with basil and tomatoes together when they spend a night in.<br>John told Mary of the first time he had met Sherlock, how he had been able to tell everything about him from one look. He told her how the tall, often cold, man had been flattered like a school boy by John's immediate admiration. How Sherlock had been able to take his limb away after knowing him for only a day. John remembered how he had learned more about the man for every day, an inexhaustible source of character, there was always more to discover about Sherlock. How extraordinary Sherlock, a man who prided himself on being alone, had suddenly been so attached to someone as ordinary as John.  
>For the past year, John couldn't remember anything people told him, because he didn't really hear it, and he hadn't told anyone anything, because he didn't want to speak, but now he found himself listening intently, wanting to hear more, and wanting to tell his own stories. Through hearing about Mary's life, back when she had still been alive, was like hearing his own thoughts, and when telling her of Sherlock, it was as if he still had a bit of him to hold onto.<p>

One intimate night, after several nights of describing every little detail of their other half, they got to the inevitable: the end, their deaths.  
>Mary, with a shaking voice, told how they had been to their favourite restaurant for their 1st anniversary. Married for one year, and still madly in love, they had had lots of wine, and their feet had been touching under the table, before they giggling left the restaurant. "Oh no, I forgot my shawl!" Mary had said, embarrassed by her tipsy forgetfulness: She was an organized woman, who usually kept herself in check, but George went right to her head whenever she was allowed to swim deep in his eyes. "You wait here, my lady, I'll fetch it!" he said as he turned, though still keeping his eyes fixed on her as he crossed the street. And that was it. He was still smiling that lovely smile at her when he was hit.<br>Mary had managed to tell it all without her voice breaking, but John had been watching her, seeing the eyes water over, and thick streams of salty tears ran down he hot cheeks.  
>Johns story had a lot more gaps. So many questions were still surrounding the exact events of that say. But this was not the story of how Sherlock Holmes had died; this was how John had lost his Sherlock. How he had reached up, and irrational action which Sherlock had reciprocated, needing to be as close as possibly for their final moment together.<p>

"I am only half of who I was" Mary said once, looking John directly in the eye, something that took effort for both of them. "and so are you. Halves can't live, John, they are incomplete. They need another half. And even if it isn't the right piece, even if the puzzle looks wrong, there has to be two pieces, for the puzzle to exist"  
>it was a strangely honest relationship: They knew they weren't right for each other, knew they would never have a chance of loving the way they had: Their hearts were to broken to allow that to happen. It was like if you were dying of thirst, and you were offered sea water: It's didn't quite satisfy your thirst, it wasn't what you needed, it could even hurt you further, but just a few sips could let you live another day: just a sip could soothe your aching thirst.<p>

John came to think of, that as much as he and Mary had suffered the same kind of loss – their other half – there was still a difference: Mary had been married to George – their love had been romantic. Did she think it was the same for him and Sherlock? It had always baffled him – and others for that matter – that a platonic love could be so absolutely overshadowing, that it could be so much more, than any love he had ever felt before. It was difficult to phase, and he wondered if Mary understood: She did, he decided. She understood it all.

After having been together for almost a year, John started to see her as more as the widow. He wondered who she had been, when she had still had George, when she had still been Mary, when she had still existed. He reckoned she must have been a laugh. And strong, oh so strong. It was clear that only a fraction of her strength was left in her withering heart, and yet she kept going, kept on surviving. He would have liked her, he though.  
>He didn't spend too much time, thinking of what she had been – he needed Mary to be as miserably as he: that was how they could be together. When being around other people, people who were still alive, it reminded them of all they had lost: But looking at each other, John and Mary simply saw the mirror of their own shattered souls.<p>

They got married. It was a small private wedding – They hadn't had a whole bunch of close friends before: Being with you soul mate really was all they had needed – but after they had been split in half, even the most supportive friends had faded out in the end.  
>Married life suited them both. No need to keep up presences for anyone. It was an accepted excuse to say you were going home to your spouse instead of going out for drinks. At their flat, it was like being left to yourself without being alone: If sorrow caught up with you, you could weep out loud, and not having to put the façade back up, yet there was someone who held you tight, who would weep with you – grief was contagious, you know.<p>

Time passed, and nothing changed. Three years ago, John had started dying, but Mary and John still survived off of each other like vegetables through respirators.  
>Walking through the haze, he saw nothing of importance, working his way to their flat, where he could be allowed to break. But something caught his eye. A flicker of colour in his otherwise grey world. A black coat was turning around the corner at the next street. That black coat was the most colourful and lively thing he had seen for too many years. He started to run. Maybe he had gone crazy, but this was one hallucination he would gladly welcome. He ran, and quickly turned the destination corner, only to bump into his target: He didn't step back. He stood closely to the man he had run into. He could smell again. He could feel again. He could see, and hear again. All these newly re-acquired senses told him the same thing about the man in front of him, but they must have come to the wrong conclusion: It couldn't be true. "John" the man said, so tenderly in his deep voice, that had a bit of a rasp to it, and John thought he would pass out. It was him, there was no doubt: Sherlock was back.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Last part!  
>Thank you for the reviews, I am impressed you found my story, it seems like there are several pages of new fics everyday for Sherlock! Well, can't blame people, I can't think of anything other than that either :b<br>I wrote this at the same time as chapter 2, but decided to make it a chapter by it self, though it is a bit short… I was actually supposed to write an essay, which had taken me all day to just write 1½ pages, and then I write these two chapters just after dinner! Says something about where my intrests are, hah! Anyways, hope you like the conclusion (:**

****"John? John, please say something now". Sherlock sounded quite worried. It had been several minutes since he had finished his explanation, explained all about why he had to leave, why he had to die, and why he couldn't make contact in the past three years. And yet, John just sat in his chair, looking out the window with his hands folded under his chin. Yes, his chair. They were sitting at 221B Bakers Street, where nothing had changed.  
>"I… stopped living, Sherlock" he finally said, slowly, turning his expressionless face to the other man. "I know, and I am sorry, John, I really am. I just couldn't risk it…" he jumped from the table where he had been sitting and crouched in front of John, the tall man almost being at eye height when John sat in that low chair. "My death might have been faked, John, but I have not been alive for the past three years. I need you" Sherlock said, voice slightly shaking. The two men held eye contact, until John finally broke the silence "Okay", he said. And that is when John was brought back to life.<br>This was also the time Sherlock mentioned the ring on John's hand. "Yeah…" John trailed off, almost apologetic. What did he have to be sorry for? "Sherlock, you can't disappear for three years" three bloody years, John thought, getting angry and shocked that he had actually survived that "and expect everything to be the same when you return. I am married now, to Mary. You should meet her", he added, almost as an afterthought. "If you care about her at all, I don't think I should" Sherlock answered, a sting to his voice. Hurt? Jealousy?, John thought. Sherlock knew he had no place to judge John on confiding in someone else.  
>What John had forgotten, was how well Sherlock could see through the most private arrangements people had, and especially, how he knew John better than he knew himself. Sherlock had seen what it had been like for John the second he locked eyes with him, and his refusal to meet Mary was actually an attempt to spare the poor girl.<br>-

John jumped up the last step to his flat. He had just been at Bakers Street, where he and Sherlock had cracked another case. A small puzzle compared to some of the thing they used to do, but none the less it had been a wonderful déjà vu to the good old days. He swung open the door: "Hey Mary, what do you say we get some take-outs from…" his voice trailed off: three boxes labelled "John" sat by the door. "Mary?" he asked into the flat. He walked into the bedroom, where she sat in the darkness. He sat down beside her "Mary, what is going on?". She took a breath before speaking in her monotone voice, the one she used with other people "I packed your clothes. I don't suppose there is much else you would like to bring. If there is, come get it tomorrow, when I am at work". She didn't look at him. In fact, it seemed to cause her pain that he was even near her. "But… Mary, where am I going? Why?" She let out what might have meant to be a laugh "To Bakers Street, of course, to Sherlock. And why? Isn't it obvious? Your soul mate is back, all you have longed for, for the past years, all your life really, is waiting for you just a few streets down. I cannot think why you are even here"  
>John was slightly hurt now, he had thought she knew him better by now. "I am not going to leave my wife, Mary. He is just a friend, I am here for you, don't worry". She sniggered again "Friend, yes, but 'just' is hardly an accurate description of the value he has to you. And I am not offering you to leave. In fact, I am leaving you." She recoiled under the hand he placed on her shoulder to comfort her. "I don't want you. I can't stand looking at you." She turned to him, none the less, as if to prove a point. Tears filled her eyes as she flicked on the lights. John was shocked. She was so different. The woman who had been his mirror of his emotions for the past years was like a stranger now. Her skin looked paper-thin, her eyes red from too many tears, deep purple circles forming under her eyes, and pupils with no light. Then he realized, she hadn't changed. He had. The recognition of his own face in her features was gone, because he wasn't broken anymore. "I am not leaving you for your sake John, no. When you're drowning, you do whatever you can to keep your head above the surface, you should know that, John, you have been drowning with me for the past years. That's why I have to leave you. I can't stand to see my mirror, becoming… 'happy', while I am still left in the same despair. I cannot see the grief I am still carring, disappear on someone else, on you. And I cannot see you, having you one wish, you last hope, fulfilled, and knowing that it will never happen to me." She stood up and straigtned her skirt. John still sat on the bed, taken aback. "Besides, where do I fit, when your puzzle is now completed by the right piece? Lock yourself out, and just put the key in the mailbox" she put on her jacket. "I am very…" she paused, looking for the right word, "…'happy', that you survived, John"<p> 


End file.
